Warhorn

by J Glenn Bauer

  Berenger was disgusted that the warrior had struck him twice, winding and bruising him. Berenger’s own blade did its job well as he sent the point neatly between the upper ribs of the man’s right chest wall and the blade opened him up inside from right to left, through lung and heart. Turro died with a grim smile even as with his final earthly blow, his axe sliced into Berenger’s armpit, opening a shallow cut.

  Berenger stood panting, hand firmly gripping the sword handle while he rested his forehead against Turro’s own. The two warriors looked deep into each other’s souls then, even as one panted air and the other sucked blood. Finally, firelight aside, no more spark was left in Turro’s eyes and his weight dragged the blood slick sword from Berenger’s hand. In a moment Josa was beside Catalon, his sword pressed into the man’s gut.

  Catalon had grown pale at the death of his powerful nephew. “Under the wagon. I’ll send her to you.”

  “Report at sunrise or go your own way.” Josa replied.

  Berenger caught Catalon’s eyes and held their stare until the man nodded curtly. Berenger was satisfied. The family would remain. It was a loss, the death of a skilled warrior, but now even these free men would know they should follow orders.

  “Saur’s dogs, Saur’s dogs, Saur’s dogs!” Berenger cursed between gritted teeth.

  With no pause Josa worked the battered leather armour and under padding free from Berenger’s torso. His hip was swollen and blackened and the skin had split from the force of the blow delivered by Turro.

  “Ah, does that feel like it looks?” Josa squinted at the huge wound in the firelight and prodded a finger into the swollen flesh.

  Berenger jerked and snapped, “I will have your head!” He laughing out loud then as did Josa.

  Josa swallowed his laugh and leaped to his feet, his axe held across his chest. Three figures approached. As they emerged into the firelight Josa moved aside and stared hard into the dark from which they had emerged. He was a cautious man.

  “We’re alone.” One of the young warriors assured him.

  He grunted and continued to keep watch. The warrior shrugged and then pushed the third figure further into the light of the fire.

  The Commander, naked save the underclothes about his loins, stared at the third figure. This was the woman Turro had brought back with his band. She looked pitiful in a torn and bloodied tunic. Her legs were bare and bloodstained. Her hands were bound behind her and she was gagged. He could tell this for although her head was bowed and her thick hair hung over her face, he could see the linen tied in a knot at the side of her neck. Her chest heaved, but he could not hear her sobs. “Untie the gag.”

  The young warrior yanked her towards him and slid a knife under the linen and tugged. Hard. Her head jerked and the linen more torn than sliced, came away with a large swathe of the woman’s hair. She spat the gag free and breathed fast. Berenger idly noted they had used her own undergarment to gag her.

  “You should keep a better edge on that blade.” The warrior looked warily at him. “Tell Catalon to report here before first light.”

  The two warriors backed away and disappeared into the night under Josa’s scrutiny.

  Berenger studied the woman a moment. “Lift your head girl.”

  His words spoken gently, slid like ice down her back, but she raised her face.

  It was obvious why Turro had decided to hold onto this one. Although beaten, she still had an allure that not many countrywomen hereabouts had. “Josa, what do we do with this one?” He had only demanded the woman to anger Turro and goad him. Josa reached down and dragged up her tunic while glaring into her face. Berenger stared at her body and felt lust stir him. Although bruised and bloodied she had a firm body with sensual curves.

  Josa glanced down and grimaced. “They’ve taken her a time or two Commander. Still, I do have a thought.” He grinned at Berenger who cocked his head in curiosity.

  Berenger had almost forgotten Rudax with the fifty riders at their rear. Now though on the eighth day and just a few days from Sagunt, a rider clattered to a stop beside Berenger.

  “Commander.” The man gasped.

  Berenger flinched as his black stallion sidled aggressively towards the newcomer. His hip was inflamed and still stabbed bolts of pain into him when he jarred it. “Report.” He said curtly, feeling sweat start up on his brow.

  “The horsemen following us have attacked. We fought them off quickly enough, but Rudax suspects the main attack will be on the column’s center. Any moment in fact.”

  Berenger glanced at the rider. “Tell me of their number and how they attacked, what weapons they used?”

  The rider was caught off guard. He had expected Berenger to sound the alert as soon as he got the news.

  “Er... they charged us...”

  “Silence! Now listen and answer.” The rider paled and nodded, wide eyed.

  “How many?”

  “A dozen or about.”

  “In a single charge?”

  “No, they rode at us... in waves?”

  “How many times?”

  The man paled further, sweating profusely. “I did not count. Rudax...”

  “What weapons did they use? You did notice those at least?”

  Nodding vigorously, the man answered. “They used throwing spears.”

  Berenger nodded. He briefly considered asking what kind of foe they were, but decided, based on the young warrior’s observational skills, that the question would be pointless. “Very well. Return to Rudax and advise him to listen for our warhorns. Two long blasts and he is to return at speed. Two long blasts.”

  “Two long blasts. Got it.”

  With palpable relief, the rider spun his lathered horse about and galloped back into the dust that hung over the wagons and the two hundred warriors in the column. Berenger scanned the slopes rising gently on both sides of the valley road. He was ahead of the column by two lengths and entirely exposed if they did attack. He smiled and halted his horse in the middle of the road to wait for the column to reach him.

  The attack occurred at sunset. Berenger almost yawned at the predictability of the timing. That was almost his undoing. The column meandered out of a steep cutting and jolted its way into a wide valley. With the sun fast approaching the western hill line, this provided the perfect place to spend the night. Intuitively Josa trotted up to the Commander to confirm if they would stop there. Making an overnight camp was a quick affair. The wagons simply stopped where they were on the track and the oxen were hobbled. Men tore branches from dead trees and made their campfires. The horses were hobbled together in the groups their riders rode and fought in. Game hunted through the day was spitted or else the stores on the wagons were used.

  These things had all been done when a yell followed by a thrumming of hooves broke the usual camp sounds. At first nobody paid the sounds any heed. Another yell split the air and the quality of the shout brought the warriors at their tasks to a halt. Berenger sat massaging his hip and gloomily tried ignoring the sweat burning the shallow wound under his arm. He was watching the woman build the fire and prepare their supper. At the second yell, Josa appeared beside Berenger, his axe held at the ready.

  “Get under the wagon woman!” Berenger rose stiffly and glanced about. The thrumming of hooves rebounded of the bank off hills they had passed through. He turned to look into the valley ahead of the column. It was a difficult task as the setting sun was blinding. It was a misfortune that while they were heading east towards Sagunt the track took a turn into this valley that placed the setting sun before them. This was the attack Rudax had predicted. “Josa, form a shield line behind the last wagon. Tell the men to ready spears.”

  Josa glanced once more into the sun and then trotted off to carry out his orders. Berenger marveled that he had never noticed quite how bandy legged his Captain really was. No wonder he hardly ever dismounted. Stories told how Josa had even dragged women onto his horse during raids and used them as he rode about slicing their families apart. H
e believed the first half of the tale. Berenger had started after Josa, taking his stallion with him when he paused, remembering the woman under the lead wagon. He glanced back and then noticed the swarm of figures silhouetted in the sun. “That’s a shame.” He truly hated Josa’s cooking.

  Berenger reached the jostling shield wall as the attackers charged past the lead wagon. Unhurriedly he passed through the shield wall Josa had formed. He had elected to form a wall one hundred men long with a second line of eighty men behind the first. Berenger turned behind the second line as a hail of javelins flew from the galloping attackers. Now he would see just what these horsemen were. If they were expecting to run over his men, they were about to be disappointed.

  Instead it was he that was surprised. The first shower of javelins was lethal. Far more lethal than such weapons had any right to be. The men of the first line took the brunt of the deadly missiles. Although light, they flew in at speed on low arcs and to the horror of the men in the shield wall many of the spears punched clean through their wooden shields and pinned them. Josa roared the command to launch their javelins in reply. Both lines of men hunched and sent javelins soaring towards the attacking horsemen. These rose and then plummeted down towards the enemy. Except the enemy was no longer there. The horsemen had spun and raced beyond the range of the incoming missiles, which punched uselessly into the dry ground.

  Berenger watched the first wave of attackers angle away down the valley in eerie silence, leaving only a thick wallow of dust hanging over the shield wall. Men groaned in pain and shock and were dragged to the rear. One man shrieked hideously and Berenger threw an irritated glance in his direction and winced. Somehow the man had received no less than three strikes. Two javelins still wobbled in the man’s lower chest while the third dragged between his legs having disembowelled the unfortunate warrior. Coils of purple intestine slithered along the man’s legs even beyond the reach of his feet. Berenger paced over to the warrior who was taking another gurgling breath. Berenger forestalled further screams with a quick jab to the man’s throat with his wide blade. The warrior who had the man by the shoulders jumped back in shock at the callous treatment of one of his own men.

  “Back to the line and hold your shield further from your body.”

  The man sped back to the line. Hooves thundered and another wave of horsemen bore towards their lines. Berenger tugged at one of the javelins buried in the dead warrior. It pulled free with a wet smack. He examined the iron point. It was the elongated pyramid style designed to punch through armour. However he had never seen one used with such deadly force. Through shield and armour! He heard Josa roar his command to throw and mentally congratulated his Captain on issuing the command before their enemy had retreated this time. Again the enemy surprised him. They had anticipated the order and had swerved away without launching any of their own spears. Once again his warriors’ javelins fell uselessly on empty ground.

  “Can it be that these men are so well trained?” Berenger asked himself. He felt the first stirrings of concern. He paced back to the center of the rear line. The warriors were murmuring uneasily, not having even seen the enemy properly through the dust and sun. Berenger paced along the line and tapped the shoulder of every fourth man in the second line, signalling him to mount up. The men turned happily to run to their hobbled mounts. Without warning, another wave of enemy riders appeared for a heartbeat and more light spears thumped into the shield wall. Josa went purple with rage and screamed at the Iberians to send another flight of javelins after the enemy. They had not heard the enemy approach and now three more men lay skewered while their own javelins thudded harmlessly for a third time into the ground. At this rate they’d have no javelins left by nightfall.

  Berenger whistled to Josa who was storming in frustration between the two lines of shields. The Captain strode over quickly, “Commander!”

  Berenger had seldom seen his Captain so agitated. “I’ve pulled twenty men back to take to the horses. These cow shits may be able to avoid our javelins, but let’s see what they make of horsemen charging them!”

  Josa was not too sure. “With respect Commander, we are not sure how many they are?”

  Berenger smiled and nodded. “How many javelins do your men have left?”

  “Ah, I see your point.”

  “Yes, well I wasn’t asking your opinion I just wanted to let you know so you don’t put a volley through our backs.”

  Josa nodded grimly. “Yes Commander. Did you want me to lead the charge Commander? Your hip....”

  Berenger gave Josa an icy stare. “I’ll be leading the charge. Keep an eye on me and don’t let a single javelin fly.”

  The enemy struck a fourth time and by now the warriors in the shield wall were separating into two types. Berenger watched as some became maddened and yelled insults at their invisible assailants, daring them to fight like men. The others muttered and tried to fold themselves tightly behind their shields, contorting themselves in some quite ingenious poses.

  Twenty grim-faced warriors waited with Berenger, mounted on his stallion, at their head. They remained a length behind the rear shield wall and were armed with a quiver of javelins as well as their falcatas. Berenger drew his sword and lifted it slowly, eyes trying to penetrate the fog of dust and refracted sunlight. His ears alert to the sound of hooves. He heard the javelins flung by the enemy, another silent charge, how did they do that? His sword flashed down and the stallion leaped forward. The warriors rode past the right flank of the shield wall in a tight wedge formation. Berenger pledged to gut any of the sheep-shaggers in the wall that sent a spear their way.

  He broke through the heaviest of the dust cloud moments later and was startled to find himself charging parallel to the enemy horsemen who were so close he could almost reach out and touch them with his sword point. He looked into the widening eyes of an enemy rider as surprised at his appearance as he was at theirs. Berenger and the stallion acted with one mind. The steed neighed and swerved at the enemy rider. While the stallion lashed out and snapped the neck of the enemy rider’s horse, Berenger hacked at the copper-skinned face of its rider. A cry of jubilation and battle rage tore from Berenger’s throat. Behind him his warriors followed his lead and careened into a remarkably small group of enemy riders. Javelins were hurled and in some instances just rammed straight into the enemy. For their part, most had just hurled their javelins at the hapless shield wall and were empty handed.

  The butchery was over in seconds and just two of the enemy raced unscathed into the sun. Berenger considered giving chase, but decided against it. He pulled up to scan the valley. His eyes swivelled and then backtracked. Not a league away a mass of enemy horsemen sat unmoving. Berenger felt an unfamiliar feeling steal over him. Around him the warriors were whooping and shouting at their victory.

  “Formation!” Berenger roared.

  The warriors were startled into silence and then followed Berenger’s gaze. Their jaws fell and they glanced back to see the distance to their shield wall.

  “I’ll kill the first man to break.” His voice was like a sword being dragged over a whetstone. The warriors sat their horses in silence. Berenger turned to the nearest warrior, “Tell Josa to sound the warhorn. Two long blows. Go!”

  The warrior swallowed and bolted. The others watched him ride away with envy. The enemy started forward, their horses were smaller than the Iberian breeds, but looked every bit as dogged. The strangeness did not end there. It was the horsemen themselves. They wore dun coloured tunics with red sashes around their waists and scarves of the same colour wrapped about their heads. Many had also wrapped the linen over their lower faces, revealing only their hawk-like eyes. Berenger exhaled. In truth he found himself a little envious of their uniformity. Now he realised what Rudax had tried to convey to him when he called them foreign. How had so many managed to be so silent? He shook the irrelevant question from his head and raised his bloodied sword. Behind him he heard two long wails issue from a warhorn. He hoped it would be in
time.

  As though the warhorn was their own signal, the enemy riders broke into a canter. Berenger’s warriors shifted and glanced at him nervously. He watched them close the gap towards his small force and a wave of relief washed through him. It had suddenly dawned on him that while they appeared to be many, this was just because of their uniform dress. As they bore nearer, he saw they were just double his own force in size, maybe forty or fifty riders. “Well what are we waiting for? Let’s teach these foreign donkey lovers some Iberian manners.” Berenger spurred his stallion forward. The enemy were tenacious and fast. Berenger had never fought against an enemy like them. His men fortunately had javelins, but he was armed only with his sword. They charged directly at the center of the enemy horsemen who simply flowed away from them. Berenger frowned perplexed. Then in a sudden swoop the enemy who had been flowing away suddenly changed direction and galloped down Berenger’s flank. Their javelins whistled into his men. He heard solid thumps and a horse screamed, struck in the ribs. Its rider cursed and sprang off the dying beast to avoid being crushed when it crashed to the ground.

  His men, to their credit, quickly spread out and returned a volley of their own. Berenger cursed, they hadn’t hit one solitary rider and now somehow had the enemy between them and the shield wall. He pulled his stallion around savagely and raked its ribs charging back at the elusive enemy. Again they melted away, now in two bands that streaked back down both sides of his riders. More thumps. Without looking Berenger knew they had taken even more casualties. Where was Rudax? Berenger was frustrated beyond anything he had ever experienced. This was pitiful. Selecting one of the enemy formations at random he again led his men, now far less vocal, at the enemy. He ordered them to spread out and the manoeuvre partially succeeded and at last the ring of blades sounded. Berenger himself did not make contact, but at least some of his warriors had struck the foe. Buoyed by this small success, he led another charge at the enemy. Again they managed to make limited contact and a brief melee ensued in which Berenger hacked another enemy rider off his mount and confronted another. The man was short and slender. Berenger expected to slice the man in two, but the enemy rider seemed to be everywhere and nowhere all at once. Hip aching and armpit burning, Berenger cursed the rider loudly as he fruitlessly struck and sliced at the man. Suddenly the rider turned and fled leaving Berenger panting on his stallion.